Viper Team Seven (The Viper Team Seven Series Book 1) (2 page)

“Captain Jones…I
don’t care who comes into this harbor; they all know where they are and aren’t
supposed to go. And freighters don’t unload here. What’s your excuse for your
actions? Over.”

Lahud glanced at
the clock on the wall. He’d better shut this guy up quickly. “I was told to
unload here, and I make no excuse for my actions. I only ask how you intend to
move my ship from this location. Over.”

Flustered, the lieutenant
stated, “
I’ll get someone to blow you into the ocean if you don’t leave at
once.
And if you don’t believe me, just stay there and see. Over.”

Lahud was not frightened.
If someone destroyed his ship, that would only mean a quicker explosion of the
cargo, and a more sudden destruction of the lieutenant’s beloved
George
Washington
. It didn’t really matter that much if the explosion happened now
or five minutes later, the outcome would be the same. Still, Lahud wished to
have things happen on schedule. “Mr. Officer of the Deck, sir, you have no
authorization to do such an act. On the contrary, however, I have authorization
to unload my freight here, and I have no intention of compromising that order.
Do I make myself clear? Over.”

“Well I can get
authorization real quick, and the outcome of your lovely cargo wouldn’t be very
desirable if you do stay there. You have five minutes to evacuate your position
or–”

“Or what? You’ll
gun down my ship? I really don’t think any man in his right mind would
authorize that, and you know it. Don’t you? Over.”

“Over and stinkin’ out,” the OOD concluded, slamming his clenched fist on
his small desk. His thoughts toward the little freight ship were frustrating,
but in five minutes, it would be the cause of him never thinking again.

*          *          *

The driver of
the fleeing vehicle, with vun Buvka in the passenger seat, whipped a U-turn and
parked by a sidewalk, in perfect view of the hotel. Before the two could even
blink, the Paramount Hotel exploded from the very center, then caved in. By vun
Buvka’s estimation, half of the hotel’s occupants would be either killed or
injured. Charles Williams, the FBI agent in the parking lot, was thinking the
same thing and he knew he needed to act fast. There was nothing anyone could do
about the hotel explosion now, but Williams could do something about the one
responsible for the demolition. He could see his target, and he knew if he
played his cards right, he would take this guy out in no time.

Williams began driving up to vun Buvka’s vehicle, considering his best
option. He decided against calling for backup. After all there were only two of
them, and he had the element of surprise. He drove by the terrorists, rolled
down his window, and fired four bullets from his 9mm pistol at the vehicle. The
bullets shattered the windows, but Williams couldn’t tell if he’d hit anyone or
not. Not taking any chances, he emptied the rest of his bullets into the
immobile car. What happened next was totally unexpected. At first there was no
sound or movement from the car. Then suddenly, as Williams reloaded his pistol,
a hand grenade was thrown into the driver’s side window. The terrorists’ vehicle
sped off toward the northern end of the city, and left Williams alone. In a
flash, he tore open his door and scrambled out. And just in time too. The
grenade exploded his beautiful Lexus into pieces. Shrapnel ripped into Williams’
stomach and chest, leaving him unconscious and bleeding on the sidewalk.

*          *          *

There it was.
The signal had finally come, and none too soon. Lahud threw down the satellite
phone and bellowed orders in Arabic to his team. He now had no fear of speaking
in his native tongue; secrecy no longer mattered. The time had come for all of
them to be offered up for the cause. All it took was the flip of the switch,
and that would set off the C4 plastic explosives in the center crate. That
explosion would most likely kill all on board, but they had planned it that
way. To die like that would be superior to drowning or being captured by the
Americans. The fertilizer and other explosives would go off after the first C4
crate exploded.

“We are ready.
Whenever you give the word, we’ll commence the attack.” Those words were spoken
by Lahud’s most trusted man, Yulka Kabril. The one thing Lahud hated most about
dying was not being able to do exactly what he was doing now – attacking the
Americans with his best friend Kabril. But now it was time to die, both of them,
for something they believed was right, and both men had no fear or shame. They
would be heroes; their names chanted for months by their family and friends. Everyone
would be proud, and Lahud was more than ready for someone to be proud of him.

Khan Lahud had
been a bratty kid, always getting into trouble, and always bringing shame to
his family. His father had once told him he regretted he ever had him for a
child, and that his life would be better without his pesky little son. “It would
be an honor for me never to see your pitiful face again.” Those were his
father’s precise words, and they clung to Lahud like his own skin.

At the age of
sixteen he had left home and began waging terror on the Israelis. Nothing
major, just small things like bus bombings and murders. At twenty-five he
trained with terrorists in a camp in Iraq. He was so good at terror attacks
that he was deemed the leader of a terrorist team bound for a major attack in Israel. After completing that mission with flying colors, he was promoted to the new
terrorist trainer, and he held that position for ten years until he was chosen
for this operation. He was able to hand pick his own team, and he chose the
best in the business. And now here he was, striving to make his father and
mother proud. He only hoped he would.

Lahud and his
team stood on the main deck. Now was the time. He took a deep breath, cleared
his throat and with a loud voice said, “For the glory of Allah, country, and
our families, release Operation FIRELIGHT.” He nodded to Kabril to proceed.

Kabril grasped
the ignition switch and with one voice the terrorists all cheered, “For the
glory of Allah, country, and our families!” The massive explosion could be
heard and seen for several miles around.

The first explosion
tore open the freight ship, but the dozens of other larger explosions ripped
wide holes in the
USS George Washington
. The last and most devastating
blast blew up the entire midsection of the grand
George Washington
. The
ship ignited in flames as she slowly sank, lighting, as said, the entire bay
before plunging to the depths of the ocean.

Operation FIRELIGHT was a success, as was the hotel bombing. Yet they
were just the beginning. What would happen throughout the night would shake America forever.

*          *          *

“Mr. Vice
President, sir, you’ve got to get out of here. Now!” the lead Secret Service
agent yelled, interrupting the Vice President’s nightly swimming exercise.

Confused, Stan
Anders stopped mid-stroke. “What is it?” he asked, clearing the water from his
eyes.

“No time to
explain, sir, but we’ve got to get you to the safety of the White House immediately.
There’s no time to lose.”

The Vice
President climbed out of the pool. “Um, give me a minute to change into
something decent,” he said, pointing to the baggy t-shirt and green checkered swimming
trunks he was wearing.

“No sir. There
isn’t time for that. Get your wife and let’s get rolling.
Marine Two Foxtrot
is ready and waiting. Hurry,” the man begged, pulling on the Vice President’s
arm.

The Vice President
met up with his wife inside the house, and the Secret Service detail urged them
down the hall to the front door. The agents reluctantly allowed the couple to
pull on their shoes and grab jackets, but no sooner had they done that than
they were yanked out the door and guided toward the helicopter. The cold night
air met the VP with a jolt. He wanted to ask what on earth was going on, but no
one seemed to want to give an explanation.

Seconds later,
the VP and his wife were successfully aboard
Marine Two Foxtrot
. Secret
Service agents still swarmed around them, even in the helicopter. Once the
helicopter began rising, the Vice President finally asked what the big rush was
about.

“Sir, there’s
been a hotel bombing in New York City. We are not taking any chances of letting
the terrorists attack you, sir, so that’s why we’re evacuating you immediately.
We’re sorry to have interrupted your exercise, but it was of utmost
importance.”

Even as the lead
agent spoke those words, the Vice President’s mind was racing.
Who did this?
Why? Is the President all right?

“We just don’t
know much about the situation yet, although I’m sure the National Security
Council has had some more recent information within the last few minutes.” The
lead agent went on, “The NSC is gathering as we speak, sir, and apparently the
FBI had an agent witness the whole thing. He’s been mortally wounded and is
unconscious, so they couldn’t get any answers out of him. Everyone is totally
in the dark about the whole deal.”

“Is the President
okay?” the VP asked in a concerned voice, running his hands through his short
brown hair.

“As I said, sir,
we are completely in the dark. But I’m sure the President will be in good
hands.”

That still
didn’t comfort the Vice President. Anders was not an anxious man, but he did
care a lot about his friend, President Winnfield, and even more than that he
cared about the safety of his country. Everything was hanging by a thread right
now, and all it took was a sharp knife to cut the thread and it would be all
over. He just hoped the President’s security guards were fast enough to beat
the knife. They’d better be, or the weight of the Country would be on him.

Anders tried to push those thoughts aside and focus on the present. After
all, first things first. And the first thing to do was get himself into the
White House Situation Room safely and quickly.

*          *          *

“Happy birthday,
Renee,” the President told his daughter while giving her a sideways hug. “I
wish your mother could be here to see you. Unfortunately circumstances just
would not allow it. Maybe she could fly over and see you some other time soon.”

  “Or I could
visit you both at the White House. Whatever would be more convenient for you
guys is just fine with me,” she replied as she sipped her cup of ice cold punch.

  The President’s
lead Secret Service agent burst through the double French doors and raced
toward him. “Mr. President, sir, we have a major problem.”

“What?”
Winnfield asked, his smile fading from his face.

“Appears there
was a bombing – at the Paramount Hotel in New York City. We want to get you
back to
Air Force One
immediately, sir, we fear an attack on you.”

“No way. How’d
it happen?”

“Really sir, we
haven’t the slightest clue yet.”

“Get me on the
phone with the Vice President.”

“Sir, we can do that
when you’re safely aboard
Air Force One
.”

“But,” the President
argued, “the bombing was in New York City, we’re in Albany. If the terrorists
were after me, they wouldn’t blow cover and attack some hotel first, they’d try
and surprise
us
.”

“I understand
your desire to stay here with your daughter, sir, but terrorists really have no
certain rhythm to their attacks. For all we know it could be a diversion, sir.”

“That doesn’t
make sense and you know it,” Winnfield accused. “They know you guys would be
guarding me even more once the bombing took place.”

“Sir,” the agent
said with frustration, “you really don’t have a choice. Am I right?”

The President
sighed. “I think I have every right to say where I should go. Now get me on the
phone with the Vice President right now. We’ve got to prepare in case there are
more attacks.”

“Not in a
suicide bombing; you don’t have a choice,” one of the other agents chimed in,
jogging up to the lead agent and whispering something in his ear.

“What’s wrong
now?” Winnfield questioned with a tone of irritation in his voice.

The lead agent cleared his throat and responded. “The, uh, bomber of the
hotel. He got away, sir. We believe he’s headed this way.”

*          *          *

The moment
Marine
Two Foxtrot
landed on the White House’s South Lawn, several shadowy figures
emerged and raced toward the White House. It hadn’t taken the VH-3D helicopter
but a few minutes to travel from Number One Observatory Circle to the White
House. Once inside, the VP was ushered to the Situation Room where the National
Security Council was gathered and ready.

Without even
nodding to anyone, Anders sat down in his chair, adjusted, cleared his throat,
and finally spit out the words, “What’s up?”

The National
Security Advisor, Tom Smith, seized the opportunity. “Sir, we are doing everything
we can to ensure the President gets to
Air Force One
and is safely
brought back here. But so far he has not been transported from the house.”

“What house was
that again?” the VP questioned.

“His daughter’s
in Albany. Remember?”

“Yeah, I do. Go
on.”

“Well, not to
change the subject, but that FBI agent who was at the hotel at the time of the
bombing finally regained consciousness. Oh, and apparently the terrorists are
appearing to be heading toward the President.”

“What exactly
happened to the FBI agent?” the Vice President wondered.

“Oh, sorry sir.
He attempted to take the hotel bombers out, and was severely wounded in the
process by a hand grenade. He’s not expected to make it through the night.”

“Did he identify
who the bomber was?”